


Hurricane Season

by FreshBell



Category: Original Work
Genre: Creampie, F/M, Gonewildaudio, Narrative, Victim Blaming, city monster country mouse, deeply disturbed "love", florida gothic, gonewildaudible, script offer
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-23
Updated: 2020-06-23
Packaged: 2021-03-04 03:41:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,695
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24877111
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FreshBell/pseuds/FreshBell
Summary: In the dead heat of a too-long summer, a stranger comes to town.
Comments: 1
Kudos: 16





	Hurricane Season

**Author's Note:**

> Riff and improv on this as you like! I do not give permission for recordings of this to be posted anywhere but Reddit/Soundgasm.

[optional sfx: low summer night sounds. cicadas. night birds.]

[this guy is musing and slow. This is set in small town America but the man is not necessarily a small town American! Just be you! (This is my nice way of asking you please not to put on a southern accent if you don't have one naturally.) I don't really have much by way of scene instructions for this--this is a man reminiscing, telling a story. He still feels these things, but you know, it's been years.]

The sun went down, but the heat didn't break. Too much water in the air, maybe, and too still. An intimate heat, that made you too aware of your body, every place your skin touched itself, every place you touched the wood, sweat pooling immediately everywhere you tried to rest. Wet at the nape of your neck, and under your jaw. No respite to be found.

It was a cicada year, and they were loud all around us, a constant reedy screaming from the trees. The moon was yellow and swollen, not quite full yet. The jasmine was blooming. A thick, sweet, heavy smell, even without the inescapable summer bearing down on you, and it grew so densely around the pavilion. You told me later that for years afterward the smell of jasmine frightened you. That's the way of human brains, trying desperately to find patterns, and inventing them when they don't exist. Telling you that jasmine blooming was the herald of my violence. No matter that I would have happened to you in any weather, every weather--it happened that I came to you in hurricane season, and so did they.

I was a stranger to you, and at first you had been delighted. A little town, it was, with very little of novelty, and I spoke to -you-. I smiled at you, occasionally, not often enough it stopped feeling like a reward. I told you stories, and I listened when you spoke. You told me the ancient feuds of the aging townsfolk, and showed me where to pick the best oranges, taught me to draw out the single sweet drop of liquor from the honeysuckle. You were so desperately bored, that long, long summer, and I was so new and strange.

I was bored, too. I hadn't come to your two-streetlight town for any kind of good reason. On a level, you must have known that. Why would anyone, except by accident, and once they realized their mistake, why stay? There were more beautiful places, if I wanted nature, and more interesting ones, if I wanted anything else. The only thing your town had was its lack, its dullness and sleepiness and isolation.

And, of course, you. Lovely and hungry and bored. Not stupid, not even credulous, not even really innocent--but full of such desperate want that you were willing to forget who you were. Willing to ignore all the little things a woman shouldn't ignore about a man. Willing to walk with me in the too-still, too hot nights, even though you knew to the footstep when we went too far for anyone to hear you scream.

You never screamed, as it happened. Most people don't. Takes more breath to scream than you'd think. Breath you don't have, running down the seashell roads, breath you don't have, with such weight pressing your chest down into the dirt, breath you don't have, with your air catching on tears.

But that all happened later. The first night I hurt you was in a garden, with the jasmine blooming, and the Spanish moss hanging perfectly still from the live oaks. There was a little pavilion, round, with benches, where people had weddings, occasionally, or hid from rainstorms. No rain, that night, but a place to sit, near me, and talk, and let your wants make your wits dull.

I can't say I fell in love with you at first sight, or twenty first, or fifty-first--I think in that strange isolated summer, trapped like an insect under an inverted glass, loving you grew like the layers on a pearl, slow and fine.

And I resented you so -badly- for it. For being small and common and nothing and somehow catching my attention. I blamed the dullness and the heat and the lack of other options, and then I blamed your mouth and your thighs and your arms and the sweat that trailed down between your breasts.

I was angry, that night, that first night. You would have come to me willingly, but I didn't want you to. I wanted to drag desire out of you with all the viciousness I was capable of. You had ensnared me, and I wanted you to know the consequences of that. You overstepped yourself, making me want you, and I was going to put you back in your place.

I wasn't entirely sure what I planned to do in the morning, after I'd fucked you raw and crying on the floor where the children held their birthday parties. I wasn't really supposed to leave your town until I'd gotten the all-clear from my boss. There were ways to make someone too ashamed to report you, or too scared, but I don't know that I had any of them in mind when I turned to you in the dark.

I put my fingers in the hair on the nape of your neck and slowly, slowly, closed them into a fist. So nice, how often women come with handles.

I just held your head still, for a second, hesitating on the precipice.

[your voice could get darker/nastier here, if you wanted:]

And then I dragged you off the bench and onto the ground.

You landed on your ass, and on one hand--stupid, provincial woman, that's how you break a wrist--and immediately tried to rise, but I wasn't having that. I came to the ground too, straddling you, forcing you down. I couldn't see you but I had hurt enough people in my life, and I was close enough to you, that I knew your movements in my own body. Knew how you'd struggle. Which hand would fly up to push at me. How you'd go still and shocked when I slapped you across the face, which I did, more than once, loving the sound in the suffocating dark.

The dark added something to the intimacy, close and tight around us, like all of this was happening inside cupped hands. The street lamp was too far away to do any good. All you had was the feeling of me on top of you, the vicious croon of my voice, the smell of jasmine and sweat--and, soon, other things.

Your shock turned to fear quickly. You knew what happened, when a man got on top of you like this. I hardly invented this crime. We were playing a very old game, and I was a better player than you. Your little YMCA self defense classes hadn't prepared you for a man like me.

You got some hits in--I think I even praised you for it. I know I laughed. I know I was willing to take worse than you could dish out, if it meant burying my cock inside you. If we both had to limp away from this, fine--but you'd be doing it with my come inside you. I hit back, of course. Though I went for places you could hide the bruises. Even then, part of me was whispering about later. About next time. About having you again.

And oh, you'd worn a skirt. You'd worn it because I said I liked it, and you paid such close attention to the things I said. I loved your soft, bare thighs against my legs when I forced my knee between yours and rocked against you, grinding my leg up against you, into that most sensitive place, the one I was desperate to wreck. You were still wet. Your struggles faltered, for a moment. Probably a shock, that sweet feeling between your legs. Then you went back to shoving at me.

I got bored of that pretty quickly and flipped you over. You managed to crawl away a bit, on the transition--I dragged you back by the leg, across that filthy wooden floor, back under me, back where you belonged. Hadn't you wanted this? I reminded you that you had. You wore those clothes for me. You wore your good bra. You'd shaved. You went out into the dark with me, and what did you think happened there?

I ripped your panties. I could have just pushed them aside, but I wanted you to have a physical souvenir long after the road rash on your knees faded. I kissed the curve of your neck so sweetly while I squeezed your tits hard enough to leave marks. Your thrashing under me got weaker as you realized nothing you did was making me stop. That was fine; you'd get a second wind when you realized I was going to come inside you.

That was when you began to try more seriously to talk me down. Which was lovely--I got to hear what made your voice go high, what made it tremble, what made it break on a gasp--so useful, when I couldn't see your face. The words... forgive me, the blood wasn't in my head. I'm sure you tried to appeal to my better nature, and to a fear of law enforcement. Neither of which I'd packed in my lunch that day. I know you tried to remind me that we were friends, because that made me laugh, and I almost dropped the belt I was using to tie your wrists together. You cursed me, though by that point you were also cursing at the feelings I was wringing out of you.

A beautiful surprise, how well you responded to rough treatment. Maybe not such a surprise. Why would I have gotten so stuck on you, if you weren't at least a little damaged? I was going to damage you more. I wanted to. I wanted to break something structural in you, something load bearing, teach you to turn with my temper like a weathervane. 

Oh, how you opened up and got so slick for me, the gasping, whining breaths as I sucked and bit your nipples. In deference to the heat, and how much you'd wanted to please me when you got dressed this morning, you weren't wearing much. Easy to push your clothes out of the way and get my hands and mouth and teeth on every soft part of you.

I was too angry to break you properly, that night--you were still telling me no when I pushed your legs back, folding you in half. So flexible for me, your ankles up by your face, and my cock tracing that wet little seam between your legs.

Too hot to hold back, too impatient to make you beg. How they would have laughed at me, back home, to see how maddened someone like you had made me. How unimportant and nothing you were, to rip all my control to shreds--I drove into you hard, I tried my best to make it a punishment, I wanted every thrust into your soaked and trembling body to hurt. From the noises you made, I succeeded well enough.

In your ear, I told you... well, a man in the first throes of love says a lot of foolish things, doesn't he, and I knew you loved my voice. You'd told me, with uncharacteristic shyness. So I murmured my threats. Promises that no one would believe you. Promises to come back. To go slower next time. To find you wherever you ran. To teach you how to please me with every hole on your body.

You did, in fact, get a second wind when you realized I was going to come in you. Exhausted and half-sobbing and terrified and soaked with my sweat and yours, slick all over, wrists twisting against my belt, you tried so hard. You didn't get free, and you didn't get away from me. I don't believe in qualified victories. I don't believe in winning without sowing the fields with salt and burning the ports.

When it was over I lay next to you, with my hand half-curled on your stomach, casual, proprietary. Not for long. There was too much humidity in the air for anything that was sticking to us to actually cool us off. I wanted to feel you shake under my hand but honestly, I wanted a cool shower more. I redressed you, tenderly, brushing gently and and affectionately over all the places I'd left my marks. We were going to have to walk back up the path together, unless you tried to run off into the trees or something silly like that, but I kept my belt on your wrists and we didn't have to find out if you'd try it.

I walked us slowly up the path, past the stream where the cypress thrust its knees up through the water, past the hibiscus, under the jacarandas.

When we got under the streetlight I stopped and took your face in my hands, tilting your chin up. I wanted to see the tear-shiny tracks down your face. I wanted you to see me, your friend, your strange new adventure, the most exciting thing that had ever happened to you, that was going to keep happening to you.

And then I told you why I'd come to your town. What I'd done in the city, and what I was more than happy to do here. I made sure you understood that your town was a knife fight, and I was a gun. You had told me everything about yourself, and I recited it back to you: every place you might go, every person you could try to get help from, every person whose life you valued. I knew you. I listened to you like no one else, after all.

Then I took the belt off your wrists, and walked you home.

In the morning I slept in. No knock on my door woke me. No siren. I dressed and walked up the road in no hurry and ate chilaquiles and drank iced tea with a few retirees and several of the local meth heads. I smiled and I tipped well, as always. And then, as had become my habit, my feet pointed themselves toward the side road where you lived.

Now, as I walked down it, I felt none of the itchy boredom I'd felt for days. I felt alive. A man in love sees the world with new eyes. I looked at the shitty apartment building near your place, and I thought of forcing you to be quiet, so none of them could hear you through their pasteboard walls. I looked at the orange trees and thought about feeding you slices from my hand. The hibiscus by your back door had dropped blooms all over the ground, and I thought about how red they'd dye your knees--I had come around to the back door, of course, the front, well, that was for strangers and Jehovah's Witnesses, wasn't it.

I whistled, as I came through the yard. Only the screen door was shut. Not like there was a breeze to catch, but you could be so adorably hopeful. I could see into the house.

I stood at the bottom of the stairs and let my whistling die. I didn't come up. You looked at me through the screen door, half hidden, feet light on the floor. A glimpsed deer, ready to run.

What did I look like? Did I look like pain and threat? Did I look like an axe, waiting to fall? Or just a man, in the yellow afternoon, a man smiling, waiting for his lover to come walk through the groves with him? Did I look like the worst thing that ever happened to you, or the most interesting?

You opened the door, and came down the stairs.


End file.
